Goats
by WrittenPhoto
Summary: When they grew closer and closer, entwined together with their grievances and hard life, they vowed not to bring more pain and suffering onto another being. They lied


My sharp cries were hushed quickly in the dark morning light, a hand muffling my sounds. I wasn't the only one crying, my parents were crowing over the chickens who clucked in the coop near our home. The padding of bare feet echoed outside, the smell of manure and clothes becoming sweat soaked were the smells that first entered through my nostrils that were quickly being cleaned from my Fathers dirt calloused hands. I was the firstborn and only child to Yive and Gaby Hale, the child they desperately promised never to have.

Yive and Gaby were raised in the Tenth District, full of livestock it was. Both were raised in large families that worked on the fields with their animals.

My Mother was a chicken, that's what they called her in school. She had nails that would tear into you like a rooster who tried to cage you up into a tree. Her cheekbones were sharp like her chin, resembling a hawk like face that resembled sharp points of a beak. Her hair was a dry matted red that had faded from a red shimmer the Capital loved. They remarked that her beauty would astound the competitors in the Games, that they would fawn over the designs they would garb upon her body.

My Father was a soft faced blonde haired cheeky boy in his younger days. He had the endurance of a stallion, and the power of a heifer. During his days of teachings in the school, he was considered intelligent, a few times in passing peace keepers mentioned he should have been born in District One or Two. They said that his intelligence and brute force would allow him to be a victor, and who wouldn't have wanted to be a victor?

But both lost a sibling to the Games.

A red haired brother, and a blonde eyed sister. Both too young for taking.

When they grew closer and closer, entwined together with their grievances and hard life, they vowed not to bring more pain and suffering onto another being. They lied. December ninth is the day they realized their mistake. My arms waving in the air and my heart beating a mile a minute. Quietly it was decided that I would be raised with love, not hopelessness. My birth scared them, and it was the reason they didn't even attempt to have any more children.

I was raised by my Mothers breast for the first years of my life. While my Father worked in the fields with the livestock. My Mother fed the smaller livestock with me cushioned to her breast, pigs biting her skirts and calves bleating in her ears. I was comfortable. My belly was full and I was around things I loved. That and I really liked goats.

* * *

Five years old and I was already tottering around with Mom, spraying corn to the chickens and letting them out in the yard to peck at the dirt. Dad had yet to take me out to break colts and to gentle cows in the fields. I didn't very much like horses, I preferred goats. Sure, they liked to ram at you and try to kick at you. But sometimes, you just look at them, and they decide they like you once in a while.

I really liked that about goats.

The first time I went to a reaping, I was carrying a kid. Small thing that liked to suck on my finger. It liked to chew on my blonde hair, my Mom scolded it often, hitting it on the nose often. I was on the edge of the group, and the boys and girls were penned up differently, dressed in their best clothes. Some lady was prancing around on the stage, strange hairs and clothes littering her body. She stepped gracefully, her shoes making tapping noises, louder than the men and women's bare feet in the morning. It sounded like the cry of war that the stallions yelled in the morning of heat filled paddocks with mares.

It was scary.

I flinched away from this sound and Mom gripped my shoulders harshly. It was happening. It was happening and there was nothing I could do, this was the horror my school mates feared a week ago, their whispering hurting those around them. Everyone was sullen faced, cold. But the teacher said it was an honor to be part of the games. Only did a few masks break when the woman made her way to a bowl filled with paper, a smile placed on her head. Her hand reached into the bowl with quickness, swirling around it for a moment.

Then deftly she picked a slip out.

I don't remember the girls name, it was called, and she was stiffly walked to the stage with peacekeepers. She looked like she was cut off from the world, and the world was silent. A boy was chosen, and the world seemed to stop. They were taken to the town hall, and I never saw them in person ever again.

I walked off with the kid in my hand, my Mom trailing behind me with silent tears streaming down her face. I had nightmares for weeks, for in seven years, that might be me, dying.

* * *

Goats start, and with it, a new character and less time to update this and other stories. Have a nice time reading, and have a good day or night!


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